These Shadows Keep On Changing
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: There are a few things a man should never have to do. Dean, and Cas's funeral pyre. Speculation for later in the season. A lot darker than I usually go.


Disclaimer: Not mine. Title is from Poe's "Haunted".

Summary: There are a few things a man should never have to do. Dean, and Cas's funeral pyre. A lot darker than I usually go.

_These Shadows Keep On Changing_

Fugue state- that's what Sam called it once. Black out.

Defense mechanism.

All Dean knows is that he doesn't know anything from the time that he lights the fire to the moment he finds himself on all fours in the wet grass thirty feet away, spewing chunks of something or other that splatter across the ground in front of him. A ten second reprieve in which he has time to breathe, but only manages a few wheezing sobs. Then his stomach contracts again, muscles working backwards and forcing his insides out, but this time it's mostly just bile. Then again. Then one more time _with__ feeling_.

"_It's pathetic, really. Sad sad sad. You were his best friend, you know. Hah! I think you were his only friend."_

Fingers digging into the dirt, feeling it lodge under the nails. Dean's not sure what he's doing more of- bawling or puking or possibly even dying, because the feeling inside is the most twisted-up combination of grief and disgust that he's ever felt, and one by itself he could manage, easy, but the tagteam combo is knocking him on his ass. The ground is rotting.

It's been a long fucking time since he gave up on the world being fair. But there are still a few things a man should never have to do, and placing his best friend's severed head on a funeral pyre is pretty high up there.

"_And he was so so sorry, did you know that- did you? All this little pansy wanted was your forgiveness. And probably a fucking hug! He died thinking you hated him, you know."_

There's a strange weight to a head, like a steel marble, heavy but too small to be heavy, resting in your hands in a way that doesn't stop reminding you that you're the only thing saving it from gravity.

The skin- whose skin?- the Leviathan's, Cas's, Jimmy's- all acid-burned and melted, seared in his head and the open end of the neck wound, black goo seeping out from around the white of the spine and the brownred of the muscle tissue. And the hair, feeling tangled but normal. That might have been what did him in.

It was Sam who swung the final blow, Sam whose knife finally disconnected the head from the body. It should have been Dean. No. it shouldn't have been either of them.

"_He died thinking you hated him. And god _fuck_ how he hated himself! He was so scared, you know. Right up until that last little second he was _petrified._"_

Arms close in around him but he scrambles away, not even bothering to avoid the puke, because for a terrifying second he knows that it's Cas- that it's Cas's headless body, come to drag him back to hell where he belongs. Where that goddamn angel should have left him in the first place. Knows that if he turns around all he'll see is a business suit body with nothing but gore above the neck.

"It's me, Dean. C'mon, man. It's Sam."

He's not sure how this looks on the outside- if all Sam is aware of is his brother throwing up, tears on his cheeks- or if Sam can _hear_ the rush of horror that's swirling all around them- _see_ the reds and blacks and greens of a night of hell on earth, the night when he built a pile of wood and gasoline, placed Castiel's head on top, and lit a match. All of it is fog and cackling and stench. Does Sam know that? Does he understand?

"_How do you like seeing his face? Do you like it, huh? It wasn't his face, you know. He stole this too. He tried to show you his real face once and it almost killed you. You should've known then that the friendship wasn't going anywhere!"_

"Let me clean you up, man," Sam is urging quietly, crouching down by where Dean is still on his knees, gagging intermittently when there's a resurgence of the smell of blood. There's puke and Leviathan goo all over his hands and arms but he wishes Sam would just leave it there. It's not a night for being clean.

"Okay," Sam says finally, giving in. "Okay. I'm gonna get you a blanket, though." And half a minute later something soft and warm is draped around his shoulders, and he shivers and begins to sob again because there might be a fire just a few paces away but he is so cold. He is so goddamn cold. He's never going to be warm again.

On the other side of the blanket, arms (not Cas not Cas, they're Sam's arms, calm the fuck down), and he doesn't react when he realizes that Sam is holding him. Fucking holding him. Hurl and sludge and all, Sam has got both arms around him, kneeling right there next to him, and Dean puts his face against Sam's chest and screams. _Screams._ Then he's coughing, so hard that white stars appear against the blackness, and when he finally tries to inhale it's like breathing a gust of broken glass. Pinpricks of pain, burning like tiny pyres, flare up in his mouth and throat, and before he can stop he's coughing again.

"_How bad do you feel that the one friend you ever managed to make ended up like this- because of you? You know that, right? Without you, he never would have fallen. No! He never would have fallen, never would have tried to help with any of these. He'd still be some drugged-up drone somewhere, following somebody else's orders. He'd still be _alive._"_

"Oh man. Dean. You gotta calm down, Dean. You're coughing blood, man."

Blood. That sounds about right. He's puked hard enough for his throat to bleed before, and maybe it's that again, but more likely he's coming apart from the inside, ripping open all across his body, and Dean stops coughing and pulls back from Sam enough to see if there's blood coming from anywhere else. There's not, yet. Soon. Soon he's going to explode. Soon he's going to disintegrate, disappear. Nothing for Sam to mourn over but his coat and the stains left on it.

"Let's get going, man," Sam whispers. "Let's get back to the motel and get you in bed." Sam's crying too. Dean can hear the water in his voice, bubbles, like he's drowning.

"No." Dean is surprised by the sound of himself speaking, surprised he's got enough left in him to force out even the shortest of words. "I want to burn the coat," he says, tone flat and hollow.

There's a wet, creeping feeling down his arms and neck, and that's it, that's done it. Saying those words has finally ended him and now he's melting into the grass. Then Sam's voice is back, saying, "it's raining again. If we're gonna do it, let's do it."

Sam has to help him up, he's not even gonna pretend that's not true, and trudging back along that titling pathway to the car the slimy voice threatens to overtake him again a few times. He falters, caught by the arm that Sam has around his waist, and before the world can end they've reached the car.

"Are you sure about this?"

_He died thinking you hated him._

"Yeah." Put the coat on the pyre. Set him free. Then Dean can lie down and die.

The sobs almost win again as he pulls the coat out of the trunk, stumbles to the fire, the heat evaporating the rain and tears from his face. But he doesn't falter, now that he has a plan.

Burn it.

Forgive him.

Die.

The retching almost wins again as he catches sight of the skull, flesh gone, enveloped in flames, charring. The smell of burnt hair. Sam isn't beside him anymore, he's a few paces back, and that's probably safe. Dean's covered in everything and everything is about to catch fire with him inside. Burning. He'll follow the coat into the pyre, because not only Cas is gone, but everything is gone. It's a lie, the world was never saved. He knows this now.

And Sam seems to know that he knows, because the moment that Dean tosses the coat in the fire, Sam is grabbing him by both arms and holding him put, and Dean's knees don't give way but his head falls forward like his neck is broken, and he _weeps_.

_Without you, he never would have fallen. Without you he would still be _alive.

The rain falls harder, the fire keeps burning, and Dean weeps and trembles like he's trying to compete. _Banshee,__ Banshee,__ I__ know __how__ you __feel._ What is there left to do when everybody is gone?

But everybody isn't gone, as Sam keeps reminding him, keeps reminding him with his big stupid hands rubbing big stupid circles on Dean's back, doesn't know the world is ending.

Doesn't matter. Before long something will come and take Sam away too.

_I forgive you, Cas. If that's what will make you happy. I forgive you, Cas._

_And you'll never get the chance to forgive me._

The world is not saved. Castiel is not saved.

_He__ died __thinking __you __hated __him._ The words still echo in his head, spewing out of Cas's own mouth, a monster inside of him speaking with his voice.

Dean Winchester is not saved.

AN: In case you couldn't follow, and I don't blame you, the backstory is this: the boys find Cas, but it's actually the boss Leviathan in Cas's body They gank him, but not before he plays some headgames with Dean, using Castiel's dying thoughts. After concrete-ing the body, they decide to burn the head, and this is where the story begins.


End file.
